Colour tattoo of a pink coffee mug with teal leaves and the words death before decaf in teal script on a forearm, in a neo-traditional style.

Death before decaf mug on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A pink coffee mug with a sparkle motif, teal and blue leaves, and a brown coffee surface sits beneath the script words death before decaf. Bold black outlines define the mug, handle, leaves and lettering, with orange drops of steam or spilt coffee beside the mug. The design is shown flat and centred against plain skin on a lower arm, with a white cloth at the edges.

Neo-trad Lettering Forearm Coffee Mug Script Leaves Lettering Steam Sparkle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Marjorie had been up since five, and the urn in the function room of the Crown and Anchor had been muttering for twenty minutes like a lorry that wouldn't start. Declan put his head round the door in a borrowed waistcoat, phone held at arm's length. "Florist says the peonies are in the car park. Which car park, I said. She said the one in Swindon."

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"Then they're not coming," Marjorie said, and tipped the last of the good beans from her Tupperware into the grinder she had smuggled in under a tea towel.

The vicar, Reverend Holt, had asked for decaf, very politely, in the manner of a man whose cardiologist and wife had agreed on it between them. Marjorie had promised him a cup from the big urn. She had meant it, until she saw the tin on the windowsill marked DECAF in Bev's loopy capitals. Bev had written it in the spring and had never once in her life put the lid on properly.

Bev came in at half nine with a tray of sausage rolls and a face like thunder. "Vicar's on his third decaf. He says it tastes like the inside of a radiator." Marjorie handed her the pink mug with the sparkles and the leaves going up the side. "Take him that. Tell him it's the decaf." Bev sniffed, sipped, and went very still. "Marjorie, this is the real thing." "I know."

The peonies arrived at ten, in a van from Swindon after all. Marjorie sat on the radiator under the window with her own cup, now refilled from the grinder, and watched the caterers argue about where the cake should go. It was not yet ten. The day could do what it liked.